


and the stars are exploding in your eyes

by hito



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AU, Amnesia, Cannibalism, Character Death, Gore, I so very much do not even know, M/M, Manipulation, headfuckery, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 16:08:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hito/pseuds/hito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal probably isn't the person you want helping you out when you've got amnesia. </p><p>Written for the <a href="http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/2246.html?thread=3150022#cmt3150022">kinkmeme</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and the stars are exploding in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> So I think all the dicey content in this is covered by the fact that HIS NAME RHYMES WITH CANNIBAL, but if anyone reading this isn't a Hannibal viewer, please do heed the warnings and tags. 
> 
> All medical information is taken from TV and wikipedia, so I make no claims as to accuracy, sorry! Written for the meme.

When Will wakes up, there is blood in his mouth. 

He licks at it absently, raising his cheek from the soft carpet that's been serving as his pillow and gazing around helplessly. His vision is blurry; it takes longer than it should for him to remember that he wears glasses, and even then he isn't sure he recalls the fact as much as deduces it. His fingers slide over the plush fabric, groping uncertainly for hard plastic, but he has no luck locating the missing spectacles. 

He pushes himself to his knees with an effort, and then drops back down onto his elbows when the haze of room surrounding him lurches sickeningly, a nightmarish slide and smear of shapes and color, nightmarish inability to ground himself, hold whatever this reality is steady around himself. 

When his stomach roils and his aching head drops in an attempt to ward off the sudden, sharp attack of nausea, it becomes clear that it isn't reality that's the problem; it's him. 

As he gasps, the taste of blood in his mouth gets stronger, although he doesn't remember biting himself. He considers, for a second, epilepsy--he had been taught that auras can be accompanied by the taste of iron in the mouth, but in fact, the symptom isn't specifically connected to any particular taste, and any gustatory hallucination is a potential indication of oncoming or recent seizure. 

"Will!" someone shouts. 

There's a distinctly foreign flavor to the clipped, urgent sound, though he's pretty sure he's in _Louisiana-NewOrleans-Washington_ , and he wonders if he's suffering auditory hallucinations as well. 

"Will!" 

He attempts to ignore the hallucination, holding out the faint hope that it will grow bored and go away if he does, but then he realizes, startled: that's his _name_. 

He's raising his head blindly even before the hand touches his face, fingers steady and cool on his jaw, his cheekbone. 

He can't interpret the man crouched before him through the overwhelming wash of input, can't hear anything over the bellow of his voice as he says, "Your glasses," and slides quickly away in a staggering swirl of pale light, beige and blond and iridescent grey-green all about to vanish down the drain. 

He swallows, and again, mouth suddenly full of saliva, and when he feels like he's back in his body he feels his hand, clenched in the fine material of the man's suit, feels the steady, removed thump of the man's heart against the inside of his wrist. 

The man is real, really here; he isn't going to disappear with the bathwater, or-- 

He doesn't know what it is that he fears, exactly, but he knows enough to recognize that there is a lot here of which he should be afraid. 

"Will," the man says, voice still unnecessarily loud, "Are you all right?" 

"No," he--Will, his name is _Will_ \--says, because the politeness deserves a response, even if the answer is obvious and the man is certainly calm enough to realize it. "Can you please stop shouting?" 

"The level of my speech is quite normal, Will," the man tells him, sounding concerned, and maybe it's that, or maybe his auras just don't last very long, but when the man puts a palm under his elbow and urges him to his feet, saying, "You will be safer and more comfortable on the couch, I believe," the sound of his voice is quieter, tolerable, and he-- _Will_ , his name is _Will_ , he _is_ Will--goes, following the direction without thought. 

"Did I have a seizure?" Will asks, hand fumbling on the cushions, feeling his way into safety. "Do I have seizures?" 

There's a moment's silence while the man-- _considers_ , Will thinks sharply, though that doesn't make sense, and isn't accurate anyway, because then the man is sliding his glasses on, using a finger to settle them comfortably on the bridge of his nose, and as soon as Will can see him clearly, he says, "Yes." 

"I'm epileptic," Will says, searchingly. 

"You have had a number of seizures lately," the man confirms. 

The buzzing, directionless anxiety that has been buoying Will takes root, becomes an anchor weighing him down. "Oh." He blinks at the man's placid face, at a loss. 

"But you are not an epileptic." 

He keeps blinking. "Oh?" 

"No. The seizures are a side effect of your encephalitis." 

Will can feel his eyebrows rise. "My encephalitis?" he questions. 

"Yes. It is an acute inflammation of the brain--" 

"I know what encephalitis is," Will interrupts. "I just wouldn't have expected you to sound quite so fond of it." 

The man looks amused. "On the contrary," he demurs. "I find its effects quite fascinating, but I could not be fond of anything that would take you from me." 

Will removes his glasses so that he can rub at his eyes, pinch at the bridge of his nose in a futile attempt to disperse the incipient headache, but he makes himself inhale deeply and replace the glasses before asking his next question. 

"It's that bad?" 

"I hope not," the man says sincerely. "But it is a recent development--encephalitis is, in fact, only a suspicion of mine, not a diagnosis--and we have yet to consult a doctor about your prognosis." 

Will barks out a laugh, but the man appears to be entirely serious. "We had better things to do?" he asks. "Christmas is in five weeks, right? Only so much time for shopping." 

The lines around the man's mouth deepen, and he starts to say, "Will," as prelude to a request for explanation, but Will shakes his head, staves the questions off, and the man allows it. 

Will breathes in again, fills his lungs with beeswax and leather and wine, the familiar scents of a place he doesn't recognize, meets the man's unfaltering gaze, and asks the only question left the answer to which he thinks he can handle. 

"Who are you?" 

The man's slow smile doesn't touch his eyes. 

It's an attractive smile, surprisingly so given that Will can't remember being attracted to men before, but--Will can't remember being attracted to _anyone_ before, so maybe it shouldn't be so surprising. 

"Will," the man says on a rising intonation, and then, "My name is Hannibal." 

"Hannibal," Will tries, testing the word in his mouth, rolling the vowels quietly, tasting the consonants delicately with the tip of his tongue. It's unusual. "It suits you." 

"Thank you. How much do you remember?" 

"Very little. Giving me your name didn't really answer my question, you know." 

Will knows the man-- _Hannibal_ \--is aware of it, watches him _consider_ as he tilts his head thoughtfully, eyes untroubled as they regard Will. He chooses to acknowledge it, saying, "I know. It is difficult to know how to proceed in such a case. We hear so much about the caution necessary in treating amnesia, and even though I hope and believe that yours will be of a short duration I do not wish to misstep." 

"You sound like a doctor," Will says, and tries not to let that turn into a question, tries not to let the sudden alarm he's feeling show in the set of his shoulders. He doesn't know why he would feel alarmed. A doctor would be a useful companion in this predicament. 

"I used to be," Hannibal says thoughtfully. "I left the profession some years ago." 

"I used to--" Will's voice cuts off before his brain catches up with his mouth. "I don't know what I used to do." 

"But you know that you used to do something," Hannibal tells him. "You know that your profession has changed somewhat." 

"Yes." 

"I can't provide you with much information here, for we have never spoken of it. It was a traumatic experience for you." 

"You sound like a psychiatrist now," Will says, smiling. 

"Yes," Hannibal tells him. 

"Oh," Will says, again, and blinks. "I keep saying that. I feel dumb." 

"You are not a stupid man," Hannibal says. "It is an understandable reaction to the shock caused by your loss of memory." 

"So," Will says, studying the sharp lines of Hannibal's suit, the neatly formed tie, the clarity of his eyes as he sits too close to Will on what appears to be his office couch. "You're not denying that I sound dumb." 

Hannibal's pocket-square is askew and his shirt is rumpled, undoubtedly a result of Will's clutching hands. There's a desk a short distance away, a small patch of carpet darkened by spilled water, and beyond that two luxurious leather chairs set up in a formation Will recognizes, ready to receive doctor and patient. There's a dirty mess of cloth that Will thinks must be his jacket thrown across the arm of the visitor's chair. His eyes slide unwillingly back to Hannibal's suit, to the curve of Hannibal's mouth. He's a very calm man, and he looks gentle when he smiles; it's difficult not to be reassured by him. 

"I try not to lie to my friends," he says, voice teasing. 

"Is that what we are?" Will asks. 

"Certainly we are friends, Will. I am closer to you than I am anybody else with whom I have been acquainted in a very long time." 

He's good at speaking to conceal, and he's very good at doing it so politely that it would seem churlish to call further attention to his equivocation. "Are you my psychiatrist?" Will asks instead, conscious of the placement of his jacket. 

"No," Hannibal says. "I have taken pains not to become so." 

"Oh," Will says, in sudden realization this time, eyes dwelling on the half-drunk glasses of wine that had escaped his notice, abandoned on the table by the chairs. "Are--" He cuts himself off deliberately, changes direction because the conclusion is so obvious that to make it a question seems obtuse. "We're lovers." 

"Yes," Hannibal says, relief at not having to inform Will of the truth of their relationship evident in his voice. He relaxes abruptly at Will's side, and his fingers move across the small amount of space he's allowed to remain between them, touching gently in brief caution, before his hand comes down to cover Will's own. "You remember." 

"No," Will says apologetically. "I'm sorry." 

"Well." Hannibal's disappointment is plain, but his fingers tighten around Will's hand in reassurance, and Will finds himself turning his own hand over, curling his own fingers around Hannibal's palm in an attempt at reciprocity. "That would have been too much to hope for at this stage, I'm afraid. We must visit the doctor immediately, now that things have come to such a pass. We should have done so long before now, but you have been so afraid of the consequences that would follow at your work." 

"What's my profession?" 

Hannibal hesitates, and Will's fingers tighten, a protest rather than a reassurance. 

"You are a consultant for the FBI," Hannibal tells him, "though that does not begin to explain who you are or what you do, or why it has been so important to you that you have risked your life and your sanity for it." 

"So tell me," Will says, peripherally aware that he's clasping Hannibal's hand so hard that the bones must be showing white through the skin. "Tell me who I am." 

And Hannibal does. 

Will thinks he should find it harder to credit much of what Hannibal says than he does. The things Hannibal tell him seem like they should feel extraordinary, but they don't, not at all. 

"You have expressed your fears of the consequences of your work to me as well," Hannibal tells him, with an ease that is its own pleasure. "But the people with whom you work are the bigger threat." 

"Threat?" 

Hannibal's shoulders lift slightly, then drop; there's reluctance in the movement, and Will spends a second trying to follow that thread, to figure out whether Hannibal does not wish to speak, or wishes instead that he did not have to restrain himself. He doesn't reach a conclusion before Hannibal continues. "The bonds of friendship and obligation tie you to a job that will prove harmful to you, that already has. Your colleagues do not wish you ill, but your ability rather than your wellbeing is their primary motivation. You also don't always make the best decisions where that is concerned. Their--and your--enthusiasm, while sincere and well-meant, is not wise." 

"Because it's preventing me seeking medical treatment? I don't see how it would." 

"You have been afraid of your diagnosis," Hannibal informs him steadily. "You have been afraid that your symptoms would not be explained by any tests you might undergo, that they would have no physical cause." 

Will wishes the information that he had feared mental illness felt like any kind of revelation. "But they do," he says to himself, repetition to reinforce, not requiring a response from Hannibal. 

"I believe so," Hannibal clarifies. "I would have liked you to be tested, to have begun treatment by now. You have been traveling for work." 

"I think I can afford a few days off," he says ruefully. 

Hannibal smiles slightly. "You were reluctant to disclose these things to your employer. Jack enables you to do work at which you are extraordinarily talented, to make use of your gifts. It is natural to fear the loss that might follow such an exposure." 

He winces before he's aware of the reaction, before he thinks, in a whizzing rush: _not safe anyway, doesn't think--_

Because Hannibal _doesn't_ think he should be doing this job, and surely wouldn't mind if he no longer could. 

He hasn't vocalized those thoughts, though, the same way Will isn't vocalizing his now, isn't betraying his wistful longing for a memory of what it must have been like to have this steady, solid presence by his side while his life was falling apart around him, while _he_ was falling apart. 

He would rather weave a shadow of that than the less ephemeral things they are speaking of, echoes of those forgotten anxieties shivering through him at Hannibal's words, without having to be sought. 

"Should I call Jack?" 

"He will contact you," Hannibal says. "Soon." 

"How do you know? Has there been another murder?" 

Will can see the reserve in Hannibal's eyes, can feel it in every line of his body, in the tension of his arm and thigh where they sit pressed together; he knows Hannibal is holding something back, something more specific than his resentment of Will's colleagues. 

"Don't lie to me," he says sharply. 

Faint surprise chases across Hannibal's face before fading away like mist. "I won't," he reassures Will easily. "But that is enough for now. We should go to the hospital without further delay. The journey has been postponed long enough." 

Will feels, uselessly, that he should offer some kind of objection to that, but he can't, doesn't know enough to formulate a response, like a novice at language who can identify an epithet, but not at whom it is directed, as long as it's delivered with a smile. 

He studies the grain of the carpet until the reaction subsides. It doesn't take long. 

"All right," he says, glancing up at Hannibal, and then away at the muted glow of the lamp on the desk. "I'm ready." 

He isn't, quite, but he braces himself to stand, to step outside and discover what that means; he looks directly into the dim glare of the lightbulb and closes his eyes against the harshness. 

When he opens them, he's staring up at white tubing that tells him his location-- _MR_ I, _he's inside, he's having, how did he_ \--trying to breathe through the deafening noise, trying to figure out how he _got_ here. 

He looks around frantically, trying to find something to focus on that might settle him, but he already knows there's nothing in here but emptiness and the endless disturbance of that clanging, no way to feel anything but fear or boredom. He wonders if--he thinks he's done this before. 

"Will," Hannibal says, opening the hatch and peering inside. 

"How did I get here?" Will asks, lifting a shaking hand to rub at his brow. 

"Did you lose time?" 

"I think so," Will says carefully. "Yes." 

There's a pause. 

"I'm afraid we will have to begin the test again," Hannibal says. "Please try not to move." 

The door swings shut. 

Will swallows and looks back up at the tube, because there's really nothing else he can do. With no distractions around, his mind spins on wheels, flickering from one thought to another and another and back to the first, going around and around without surcease, without getting anywhere, without resolving any of the worries sinking their teeth in to hold his attention even as he tries to reach the stage of boredom, tries to force his mind as blank as his surroundings. 

He wonders what past illness had prompted his last MRI scan, and what the symptoms had been, what prognosis and treatment he had been given then. He knows there's no point to speculating, but is entirely unable to prevent himself from guessing at a dozen possibilities, inventing his own history in his troubled mind. 

He considers other causes, since Hannibal has told him he doesn't have epilepsy, considers a tumor, a clot, and what that might mean. 

He considers what it might mean if he really has encephalitis. 

He wonders at Hannibal's question, that unsurprised reference to losing time, wonders how much of it he has in fact lost, now and before, how badly he is manifesting the symptoms and which of them he is showing. He is no more able to suppress his speculation on this subject, though he tries very hard. 

It feels like a long time before the noise halts and the door opens again. 

He doesn't recognize the man standing there. He looks around for Hannibal, but the technician is the only person in the room. Will feels stupidly bereft, but he's more successful at not thinking about that while the stranger escorts him to retrieve his personal effects and change back into his clothes, and then down a long corridor until they reach an office. Rapping on the door while Will reads the nameplate, he pushes it open without waiting for a response. 

"--quite characteristic of--" The man sitting at the desk interrupts himself when Hannibal lifts his head to acknowledge Will. "Mr. Graham. We were just discussing your case." 

Will shuts the door behind himself, and takes the empty seat beside Hannibal. "What did the MRI show?" he asks, adjusting his frames as he watches the doctor's thumb tap against his prescription pad, an unconscious gesture of distraction. 

"It's anti-NMDA receptor encephalitis," the doctor announces. "As Dr. Lecter suspected." 

"My suspicions were not quite that specific," Hannibal says. 

The doctor's eyes slide away to Hannibal, but return to Will when he asks, "What does that mean, exactly?" 

"It's good news, as these things go," the doctor brusquely informs him. "It allows the possibility of a positive outcome. In fact, there is a very high probability that you will recover, assuming that the syndrome wasn't triggered by a cancerous mass, and even then--" 

"Cancerous mass?" Will queries. 

"This presentation is a paraneoplastic syndrome," Hannibal explains. "It is associated with tumors, although most often ovarian cancer." 

"You're an atypical patient," Dr. Waters tells him, bizarrely cheerful about it. "You're definitely going to be in a paper about this." 

Will knows there are safeguards in place to protect him from unwanted exposure in such publications, but his eyes seek out Hannibal's as he shakes his head. "I'd really rather not." Hannibal doesn't respond, just watches the doctor consideringly. 

Dr. Waters ignores the gaze fixed on him, choosing instead to regale Will with stories of the other patients he has known to suffer from encephalitis, of their age and gender, the specifics of their presentation and their ultimate outcomes. 

"--and they got the cancer, but of course _she_ was left quite deficient because it went untreated for so--" 

Will is surprised when Hannibal cuts the doctor off, but he can't say he's displeased when Hannibal resumes the explanation, telling him that this form of encephalitis is not treated directly, but tends to disappear when the tumor that has caused it is itself treated. 

"Dr. Lecter is quite correct," Dr. Waters says, tapping his pen against the pad instead of his thumb, now, a gesture of irritation. "So omniscient, in fact, that I'm not sure why I'm here." 

After a brief pause, Hannibal replies, "You are the foremost neurologist in the area. Your presence was necessary." 

"And why is Dr. _Lecter_ here?" Dr. Waters asks Will. 

Will has to think about that. "He's my partner," he says after a moment, though his tongue feels rusty while he speaks the words. He wonders if he's ever said them before. 

"But not your father," Dr. Waters says, annoyance overcoming him. "I really would have preferred to have this conversation privately." 

"I want him here," Will says, blinking at the gleaming surface of the desk, sure of himself. 

"So you said." The doctor's annoyance expands to envelop Will. 

"This is a problem of oncology, not neurology," Hannibal states, and turns his attention from Will to the doctor. "You need not worry that we will trouble you again. Not for your professional opinion." 

Hannibal rises, and Will stands alongside him, the motion automatic. No more words are exchanged as Hannibal moves swiftly towards the door, but the doctor's thwarted, frustrated face remains in Will's mind after they've left the room. 

"That didn't go very well," he murmurs. 

"On the contrary," Hannibal corrects him, a small smile curving his mouth in a distracting manner. Will would have liked the memory of that earlier. "It went very well indeed. And you will not see that man again." 

"Don't I need a referral?" 

But Hannibal is moving as if he's sure of his destination, the touch of his hand against Will's shoulder an instruction to keep pace that Will doesn't need, and when their journey through the interchangeable corridors ends and Hannibal checks his watch before tapping gently on another door, Will's new oncologist comes to let them in and greets Hannibal by name. 

Hannibal is a very reassuring man, Will remembers with relief. 

* 

If he had been thinking about it, Will would have expected a lengthy stay in the hospital, but Hannibal appears convinced this can be treated on an outpatient basis until surgery is imminent, and Dr. Montrose doesn't disagree with him. 

Will is given an appointment for removal at nine-thirty in the morning three days hence, an estimated length of admission of two days, and is allowed to go home. 

He doesn't recognize Hannibal's home, but despite its formality he's comfortable there, much as with the man himself. 

"I will make you heart," Hannibal decides. He moves to the telephone in the corner as Will removes his jacket and hangs it up. It looks strange beside Hannibal's long coats. "And perhaps brain." 

"I should do something," Will offers, though he's exhausted. 

"I would not have you exert yourself." 

His voicemail is playing in the background; it beeps as one message ends, a woman's voice acknowledging the cancellation of an appointment, and a deep male voice booms out. Will thinks about watching Hannibal cook, wonders what marvels would issue from a man so exacting, and wishes he were able to appreciate any of it right now. 

"-- _seen Will since yesterday morning_ ," the man on the recording is saying. " _Has he contacted you? We can't keep a lid on this for much longer. I need you to reach out. I'm worried about him, Hannibal._ " 

Another beep marks the end of the message, and another woman's voice flutes out in an invitation to dinner. 

"Jack," Hannibal says, though Will doesn't need the explanation. 

He shrugs tense shoulders. "He doesn't sound very happy." 

"Neither do you." Will shrugs again. "Though that is hardly surprising." 

Hannibal moves across the foyer towards Will, who is startlingly aware of every inch of space he loses as Hannibal approaches. He studies the lines of Hannibal's jacket and waistcoat where they obscure his chest, the narrowness of his hips. He wonders what Hannibal's body is like. 

"I'm happy," he says, too aware of the wistfulness of his own voice. "Right?" 

"I wish that were true." The rueful tone drags Will's eyes back to Hannibal's face; he's surprised by the anticipation he finds there. "Your disposition makes attaining such a state difficult, and I have not been able to make you so yet." The word catches Will's attention, the certainty of that _yet_ , and he can't tamp down the unexpected surge of possibility, of something more tenuous he almost doesn't know how to identify. "Your circumstances are not conducive to this either, unfortunately." 

Will blinks, and in that absence he sees a face that isn't Hannibal's, a face he doesn't know, at first, dark skin, unsmiling eyes, an unhappy, resolute mouth. _Jack_. 

"I should call Jack," he says, but although Will's distraction has allowed Hannibal to move closer without detection, when he reaches up and places his hand on the back of Will's neck, Will's attention is arrested. 

"No," Hannibal says, the sound barely more than a murmur, and Will finds himself echoing the word, meaning it. 

Hannibal doesn't exert any pressure, but Will sways closer anyway. The hand curled around his neck tightens, holding him away even as Hannibal leans in, tilting his head forward until their foreheads touch gently. 

"No," Hannibal repeats. "I have been very concerned about you. I wish you would not worry me until you have taken care of this." 

The smile is inappropriate, but it comes anyway, because-- "This isn't something I can take _care_ of," Will says. "I didn't--neglect myself, or forget to take my malaria tablets, or--" 

"You neglect yourself all the time," Hannibal says sharply. "And there is only so much I can do to rectify that." 

"You don't have to--" 

Hannibal lifts his head away, but holds Will steady so that he can look into his eyes as the spot of warmth on his skin where they had been touching fades. Will wants to reach out, but he doesn't know how to. He doesn't know what he would do, if he were to touch somebody. 

"I do have to," Hannibal corrects, his cold voice a contrast to the warmth of his hand where he is still touching Will, who wants to shift, to feel it, but is afraid any movement will make the touch vanish. "Because you will not, and this can not go on." Will feels his shoulders hunch, but Hannibal's fingers move to press at the top of his spine until the tension rushes out of him. "It is intolerable. I have asked you time and again to look after yourself, to get this seen to, and you have refused. I previously arranged you an appointment myself, but you would not attend." 

"I'm sorry," Will says quietly, gaze shifting between the anger kindling in Hannibal's eyes and the stern set of his mouth. "I shouldn't have done that." 

There's a weighted moment where Hannibal doesn't respond, and then the tightness around his mouth disappears. Will tries to disguise his relief, to modulate his triumphant inhale of breath and the effervescent feeling of alertness his success brings, but he isn't sure he manages. 

He isn't sure he minds, because Hannibal's fingers slide up into his hair, and his eyes are kind when he says, quiet again, respectful of their closeness, "I need you to look after yourself." Will's mouth opens as he watches Hannibal speak. "I need you to do this for me, Will." 

"I'm not a very good boyfriend, I guess," Will admits sheepishly. It takes a second for the inappropriateness of his choice in words to register-- _boyfriend_ , like that's something Hannibal would call him, something Hannibal would even _have_ \--but thinking about calling Hannibal his _partner_ still feels weird, and it would be more awkward to stumble out a correction. "But I'll try. I love you, I promise." 

He knows what he's said immediately, feels it in the burn of the air in his lungs, in the sudden cool distance in Hannibal's eyes as he calculates Will's sincerity, his _ability_ to be sincere. 

"I'll do it, I mean. I promise I'll do it." 

The change in Hannibal as he reaches his conclusion is subtle, but the signs are obvious to Will: the relaxation in his face, the satisfaction and fierce pleasure that sweeps through his every molecule and goes viral, leaps right into the heart of Will. 

"I know you do," Hannibal says firmly. "And I know you will. You must. I will not permit otherwise." 

And then subtle goes out the window as Hannibal's fingers press at the hollow at the base of Will's skull and guide him forward, desire blunt and entitled. 

It feels like it's been a long time since Will has kissed somebody, though he knows it hasn't. But a rough moan tumbles out of his mouth against his will, and his breath rasps through him as Hannibal opens Will's mouth and accepts the hasty rush of Will's tongue into his own. He feels starved for it, parched, like this is the only water he has tasted in weeks. Hannibal doesn't object, neither to Will's eagerness nor the teasing stroke of his fingers along Hannibal's tie. These aren't deliberated actions, aren't choices at all, and the only reason Will manages to refrain from burrowing for skin is because he knows Hannibal wouldn't thank him for the assault on his carefully assembled wardrobe. He tugs on the top button of Hannibal's waistcoat, a beseechment he'll be allowed. 

"All right," Hannibal agrees, the careful cadence belying the heat in him as Will teases at his soft, tender mouth. He tastes like fruit, Will thinks, ripe and lush at the height of summer. "Let's go upstairs." 

Will has just enough presence of mind left to regret his inability to take in his surroundings as he moves through Hannibal's house in a haze, because he is deeply curious about this man, this stranger who has become the only person he knows, and he wants to bear witness to anything Hannibal is willing to reveal, even if he's seen it all already. But though dimmed lamps cast their light on paintings and framed photographs, the world drifts past dreamlike until Hannibal, in his arms and all around him, pushes open a door and pulls him inside. 

Nothing inside the bedroom registers until his back hits the mattress and bounces, Hannibal coming down over him, propped up on his hands to give Will room to breathe, and then all he can feel is gratitude that they can stop, that they're _here_. He reaches out and pulls Hannibal down blindly, opening up with as much eagerness as he'd asked Hannibal to downstairs, and far less control than Hannibal had responded with. 

But Hannibal doesn't mind, dipping his head again and again to persuade Will into letting him steal deep kisses, as though Will isn't already panting and restless under him. He feels Hannibal's weight descend on him for a fleeting moment, before Hannibal is on his feet at the end of the bed, eyes traveling Will's body as he quickly and carefully begins to unbutton his own clothing. 

Will feels like he should be embarrassed at his own disarray, at the spoiled mess he's becoming, at his rumpled pants and his untucked, halfway-undone shirt, but he can feel Hannibal's stare pass over his bared chest as if it's a touch, and all he can want, all he can do is writhe around in an attempt to kick his clothes off as speedily as possible. 

He divests himself of everything but his shoes; Hannibal unties his laces decisively and removes Will's footwear, placing socks inside shoes and shoes at the side of the bed, and then Hannibal and Will together untwist his pants from where they're tangled around his ankles and drag them over his feet. 

Will feels Hannibal's gaze differently then; when it's on his naked body it's like a kick in the stomach. But Hannibal is on him before he can process the reaction, pressing him into the give of the soft bed as he trembles a little, closing his eyes against Hannibal's unblinking regard, against the fear and exposure. 

He doesn't-- 

"Will," Hannibal says warmly, derailing his qualms, and then Hannibal's fingertips touch his skin, dig into the soft flesh beneath and stroke over his side, over his nipple. 

He thinks he makes a sound when his shoulders lift jerkily into the air, but he can't be sure. He feels easier when he sinks back into the bedding, and cautiously lets his own fingers trace Hannibal's back. 

Hannibal brushes his chest against Will's, weight considerately held away until his carefully moving fingers succeed in their attempt to drive Will senseless with pleasure and drag surrender out of him willingly, until his legs part so that Hannibal can sink down between them, body holding Will down at last. 

It's an odd position to be in, and he can feel the stretch in his muscles, but it feels good, and it gives Hannibal freedom to move, to press his mouth against Will's skin and murmur words that Will isn't sure he's meant to hear or understand, smooth lines of praise and instruction in a commingling of languages. 

When Hannibal eventually abandons his quest to make every part of Will sing with life and puts his hands on Will's cock, Will almost shudders out of his own skin. 

He tries to say something, but his tongue is thick and useless in his mouth, and he can't control his body at all, can only offer distant approval as his calf curls around Hannibal's knee and his heel digs into Hannibal's thigh to encourage him on. 

He doesn't-- 

He doesn't recognize the feeling of his cock jerking and leaking under someone else's touch, doesn't recognize this mindless crackling pleasure as himself at all. 

Hannibal doesn't spend long working Will over, but he doesn't have to, because Will does it for him, in the end, rocking against his body as he leans up and over Will to reach for the bedside table. A seal cracks, and then one of Hannibal's hands returns to Will's cock and the other slides down to his ass, wet fingers tracing over the tender skin. 

A languorous shiver rolls through Will, hurrying the beat of his heart, but he just turns his thighs further out, showing Hannibal the soft inner skin, opens his legs a little more so that Hannibal's hand can work. 

He heaves in a breath when a finger pushes slowly inside. 

"There," Hannibal says. "That's good." 

"Yes," Will tells him, a thrill in the admission. He hadn't expected it to feel this way, hadn't expected it to feel this _good_ , though Hannibal had, obviously, had known exactly what to do to make it so. Will hadn't begun to know what to expect. 

He doesn't know this at _all_. 

He must, though, beneath his illness, beneath his lack, because he's responding as if he does, opening up for Hannibal the way he wants, more than willing to give himself up to Hannibal even though none of this feels familiar even now. 

He wonders, vaguely, what it will be like to get fucked, but mostly he wonders what it will be like to have sex with somebody who loves him. He thinks maybe it's _that_ he can't remember, because he doesn't remember anybody loving him at all. 

He wonders if anybody ever has, before now. 

"I love you," he tries again. 

"I know," Hannibal says with some satisfaction, fingers pushing inside, one hand on Will's hip to still his instinctive movements. And then, with absolute certainty, voice like granite, "And I you." 

"What?" Will pants, pushing a little, squirming against the twist of Hannibal's fingers. 

"I love you," Hannibal tells him, and takes the fingers away, settling his body back between Will's legs. 

Will shoves down a moment of panic, and hides the instinct to plead beneath an instinctive response Hannibal can't stop: "No you don't." 

Hannibal slides inside slowly, without hesitation or pause until he's all the way there, and then he stills. "What?" 

"You don't even--" Will can't think, _hasn't_ been thinking, barely knows that his fingers are clenching in Hannibal's back. 

"What?" Hannibal asks curiously, alert and observing everything Will's face is disclosing in his utter loss of control. 

"Jack doesn't even know," Will complains, voice breaking midway through the sentence when Hannibal begins a slow withdrawal. "He doesn't even know we're--" 

"What?" Hannibal asks, on an easy glide back in that leaves Will gasping and clawing at Hannibal's skin. Hannibal tsks, and his voice is a reprimand when he says, "Will. Such butchery." Will manages to stop scratching at Hannibal as he keeps up the rhythm, steady, relentless movement that isn't what Will needs, but then Hannibal repeats: "Know we're what?" 

"Dating," Will spits, whole body an entreaty for Hannibal to _do_ something. "Nobody even knows we're together." 

"They will," Hannibal promises, and follows through on all the other promises he's been making and gives Will what he's been asking for, loosing himself and rocking fast and deep and selfish, _so_ selfish, shoving in hard and easy until his face snarls open as he comes and Will closes his eyes and lets himself go and bites savagely into Hannibal's shoulder as he spills between them. 

Will is barely aware of Hannibal pulling out of his body and away; with his struggle over his exhaustion returns, and he sleeps. 

*

The room is in complete darkness when Will awakens, alone in the large bed. He locates his glasses by instinct on the table beside his head, but even after he slides them on he can't tell how close to morning it is. He imagines that the curtains in Hannibal's bedroom would be thick enough to block the light quite effectively, but when he stumbles to the window and lifts one away, the sky outside is black as pitch. 

He doesn't notice his nudity until the thin light cast by the moon silvers his arm and leads his eye to his bare chest, down to the muscle of his thigh and his cock lying soft against it. There's a certain dissonance between appearance and experience; he can still feel the echoes of his earlier actions with Hannibal, memories of being opened and overtaken are uncomfortable and welcome and vivid, and the difference is evident in his body, in the ache of bruises on his hips and thighs, and the slickness that's still inside him, sliding out as he stands by the window, staring down at the clean skin of his stomach and chest and cock. 

_Cleaned_ skin, he thinks, and flushes with discomfort, unable to decide how he feels about Hannibal wiping his own come and sweat from his body so that he can rest in some sort of facsimile of propriety and order. He doesn't let himself consider it beyond the recognition that it happened; without knowledge of his own power in his relationship he can't determine what prompted the action or what reaction he might have had to it, and speculation is not helpful. 

There's a lamp on the table beside the bed. He lets the curtain drop and switches it on instead. The room contains two doors, one leading to the hallway that he vaguely remembers stumbling down earlier and the other revealing a well-appointed bathroom. 

Will makes use of the facilities while he considers taking a shower, but the thought feels invasive, as if Hannibal might somehow object to Will using his soap and his towels having already fucked Will until he slid easily into unconsciousness, until his neatly made bed was a shambles and he had to use one of his soft, white towels to clean Will up. 

Will shivers as he dries his hands, takes too long doing it. Outside in the bedroom, his clothing is neatly folded on a fauteuil by the wall; he redresses, and takes too long doing that, too, eyes drifting around the tidy room, lingering on the book left out on the table by Hannibal's side of the bed, _Fasciculus Medicinae_ , remnant of an earlier academic life in surgery, interest in the body superseded by interest in the mind, perhaps, but roots grown too deep to be removed. He tries not to wonder where Hannibal is or what he might be doing. 

The silence is daunting. 

He steps through the other door, out into the dimly lit hallway, and moves towards the stairway with a mimicry of purpose. He registers the artwork adorning the walls automatically, evaluating quality and character. He believes he recognizes the work of the Caravaggisti, though he thinks Hannibal would refer to them as Tenebrists, liking the style but disdaining the association with such a brash, fallow, reckless man. There are no reproductions. 

Will doesn't have all that much interest in art, so his steps don't falter until he catches sight of a small cluster of framed photographs hanging in a slight recess on the wall. It's the placement that attracts his attention initially, hidden from casual visitors to the house but not tucked away, on display to anyone given leave to mount the stairs, to make use of a guest bedroom or the upstairs bathroom, a deliberate revelation to anyone who has achieved that level of intimacy. 

There aren't many pictures, but Will would not have expected otherwise. There are several of the same child, but she isn't Hannibal's; the photographs are too indistinct and aged for that, damaged over time. In one of them she stands outside a school by the side of a taller boy Will recognizes as Hannibal, both children serious and unsmiling. There are too many photographs for her to be anything but a sister, and there are none of her as an adult or a teenager. Will's eyes skip over a professionally taken portrait of an elegant Asian woman with warm eyes, unable to glean anything from it, and settle on the last photo, the newest, and the only one containing Hannibal as an adult. Will is standing shoulder to shoulder with Hannibal in the image, the smile on his face making him look unfamiliar, transforming him into a stranger he has never seen in the mirror. Understanding slides out from under him as he stares at his own face, the few things he thought he had been sure of dissolving into doubt. He turns his attention to the girl standing in front of them, completing their group, studying the cautious hope lighting her face. 

The photograph is really too casual to be framed, nothing more than an impulsive snapshot, probably taken on a phone. It must be the only photograph Hannibal has of himself with this girl. 

Will moves on quickly, unwilling to see himself like that when he can't remember feeling that way at all. Forgotten happiness should feel like a promise of possibility, he thinks, but it doesn't, just rankles, reminding him of past joy he can't revisit and won't be able to recapture. 

He goes downstairs, and finds Hannibal in the kitchen. 

Hannibal is cooking, which makes Will glance over at the blackness beyond the window, at the clock ticking the seconds away on the wall. Will is generally considered an early riser, but it's well before time to begin preparing breakfast. 

"Do you have trouble sleeping?" Will asks. "I wouldn't have expected that." He wouldn't have expected to sleep so well himself, but he doesn't want to open that line of discussion. 

"I do not sleep much, but my sleeping hours are not irregular," Hannibal tells him. "I judged that you would wake soon, and that you would be hungry." 

"That's very considerate of you." Will creeps closer, watching Hannibal's hands move competently over the implements laid out on his counter. "Thank you." 

"There is no need to thank me. It is not a hardship. These things are to be expected." 

"Oh," Will says, mind lingering over the unaccustomed luxury of that, the care he wants to remember having grown used to. "Well, thank you for that." The corners of Hannibal's lips lift slightly, and he doesn't repeat his disclaimer that no thanks are necessary. Will feels warmed by the knowledge that he has pleased his lover in this small way, that he has been able to respond appropriately, in the way that Hannibal desires. He speaks to distract himself from the emotion, but the uncertainty is real when he asks, "Are those waffles?" 

"The preparation is almost complete, but I'm afraid they will take some time to cook." 

"That's all right," Will murmurs, "I'm not that hungry." 

It's a lie, and Hannibal knows it. "If you make us the omelets we will be ready to eat more quickly," he says, spatula in his hand flashing as he gestures to the eggs waiting beside a mixing bowl. 

Will wants to do as Hannibal asks, but he just glances at the eggs and then watches as Hannibal smooths excess mixture away and closes his waffle iron. Will can't imagine owning a waffle iron. Will can't imagine _Hannibal_ owning a waffle iron. 

"Rather unrefined," Hannibal says, answering Will's unspoken question. "But at a certain point in my life it seemed wise to--partake of the feast as I watched the games, shall we say, and you do develop a taste for these things." 

Will doesn't speak until Hannibal looks up at him inquiringly. 

"I don't know how to make an omelet," he says, eyes fixed on the eggs. 

"Oh," Hannibal says, sounding startled. "You do, but I had forgotten you wouldn't remember. I will show you how again. It is very easy, and you like them very much." 

The embarrassment increases in the face of Hannibal's reassurance, but Will can't do anything but nod in awkward agreement. 

"Beat three eggs," Hannibal instructs. 

Will moves to comply, cracking the eggs on the rim of the bowl, but his eyes are on the confident movement of Hannibal's fingers as he cuts strips from a shoulder of meat, and one of the eggs slops over his fingers. Hannibal leans forward and raises Will's hand to his mouth, sucking the white away, then resumes slicing without a thought. Will stutters, path to his goal disrupted, but when Hannibal lifts an eyebrow he ducks back to his task, forcing the distraction away. 

"Milk and seasoning now," Hannibal tells him, turning to the stove, pulling two pans from his selection and setting them up while Will fumbles his measurements, setting the harder to judge milk aside until Hannibal returns to tell him when. "Now whisk." 

Will is pretty sure he remembers the difference between beating and whisking from his brief stint in home economics, but he checks Hannibal's face just to be sure. 

"Harder," Hannibal says, lifting his chin. "No, harder." 

Will whisks until a light sweat breaks out on his brow, but it's worth it when Hannibal says, "Good. Into the pan," and then takes Will's place at the stove. 

"I'm done?" Will asks. 

"No," Hannibal says, surprised, and motions his head towards the counter behind them. "Chop the asparagus." 

It's the easiest task Will has ever been given. "Do I like asparagus?" 

"Oh, yes," Hannibal says, and then, "You are uncomfortable with domesticity." 

Will has been watching Hannibal spread the egg around the pan while he chops, and the statement discomfits him enough that his knife slides across his finger. He cries out sharply, shaking his hand, but Hannibal steps towards him swiftly and puts his mouth on Will's finger, sucks the blood from it as easily as he had sucked the spilled egg. When Hannibal releases him, the blood has disappeared, but the cut stings and Will replaces Hannibal's mouth with his own by instinct, watching as Hannibal's eyes darken with arousal before he turns back to the eggs. 

"Does that require a bandage?" 

"I'm fine," Will says. "It's just a scratch." 

"Then dice the tongue," Hannibal tells him, "and we will be done." 

Will keeps his eyes on his work this time, trying not to think about that look in Hannibal's eyes, trying to remember what tongue tastes like, trying not to get hard at the breakfast table at three thirty in the morning, though he thinks Hannibal would like it if he did. 

"I like it," Will forces out, not lifting his eyes to see how Hannibal reacts. "I'm just not used to it, that's all." 

"You are," Hannibal corrects. "And you will be again." 

Will can't help but hope that's true, and maybe it will be, eventually, because every time Hannibal says something like that it gets easier to believe; it becomes easier and less frightening to believe that he could have been the person who has this, and that he might have it again--that he _still_ has it, and that he might _become_ that person again. 

He _wants_ that with a sharp anxiety that translates into urgency, wants it more than anything Hannibal has given him yet. 

Hannibal spreads half the filling over the omelet, finishes it off quickly, and dishes up, garnishing with basil. 

"And once more," he says, and Will groans. "It will be easier the second time," Hannibal tells him. "You will remember how now. This will be true for many things." 

He returns to his meat, gesturing Will back to the eggs. It was easy enough the first time, and it is easier now that he's done it once, so he wanders over to join Hannibal while he whisks. 

"Sausages too?" he asks, peering down at the meat Hannibal has sizzling. 

"Not as fine a cut of meat as our gammon," Hannibal says quietly. 

"I'm not sure I would ever describe a sausage as a fine cut of meat." 

Hannibal smiles briefly. "That may be true, but some sources are more satisfactory than others, and I believe we will be particularly pleased with our gammon and tongue this morning." 

"You're quite the Epicurean." Will is amused by this quirk, feels what he thinks might be remembered fondness, but he doubts this of all things would trigger any kind of memory, and even if this is a familiar scene, muscle memory doesn't work that way in the mind. 

Muscle memory doesn't seem to be working very well for Will at all; he hadn't even been able to remember how to have sex earlier, although he had been able to whisk, and failing at that might actually have been more humiliating, and less forgivable. 

"We take our pleasures where we can," Hannibal says, and lets his eyes slide to Will's mouth, which parts under the pressure of that gaze before he registers the words coming out of Hannibal's mouth as he stares at Will's: "You have not cleaned yourself." 

Will flushes and fumbles the mixing bowl, but Hannibal's hands cover his to steady him. 

"I, uh--" Will says dumbly, staring down at his eggs. They're ready to go in the pan; he should--

Hannibal pulls the bowl from his hands and pours it in for him, but this time he indicates that Will should finish the job and turns his attention back to his own task. 

"I wiped the worst of our ejaculate from you so that you could sleep without dirtying the sheets too much," Hannibal says. The egg is not even when Will spreads it, and his uncoordinated attempt to remedy the situation causes it to tear. Hannibal watches, but doesn't comment. "But I did not want to disturb your rest, so I did not force you up to clean yourself properly, nor did I clean inside your body, though obviously this lead to mess that we will now have to clean instead. However, I assumed you would take care of yourself once you woke. Your omelet will burn if you do not flip it." 

Will's hands shake, but he manages to get the cake back in the pan. 

"I didn't want to use your shower uninvited," Will says, knowing how stupid it sounds. 

He can _see_ the stupidity of his doubt reflected in Hannibal's expression, in the pity that is quickly hidden under an amused appreciation. 

"That is very polite of you, Will, and I do like politeness," Hannibal says. "But I would have you know that you are welcome to my home." 

Will reaches for the remainder of his pile of chopped food, transferring first the asparagus and then the meat and pulp of the roughly cut tongue. "It's your home, though," he says, trying and failing not to mumble. "It's a private space. I can't just invade your privacy like that, it's--" 

The thought of it is unforgivable and uncomfortable and dangerous and thrilling, and he can't say any of that without appearing more of a fool than he already does, even to himself. 

"--it's not acceptable," he settles on. "Not the prerogative of everybody who shares your bed. Almost boorish to trample that understanding, wouldn't you say?" 

"I would say that," Hannibal agrees, "if we had any such understanding." 

Will's eyes skitter away, and he folds his omelet imprecisely, plates it and then wishes he hadn't. He has no further reason to look away from Hannibal. 

"I love you," Hannibal says, as if it is a matter of little consequence, and then, with a gravity Will can't help but feel the pull of, "You share more with me than anyone ever has. Through your own nature and both of our choices. I would have us share everything." 

Will can't respond to that, but he manages to hold Hannibal's gaze until Hannibal brusquely instructs, "Eat!" and pulls out a chair at the table for him. 

He tries to take his omelet over to his seat, but Hannibal pulls the plate from his grasp. "I will have this one, I believe," he decides, before replacing Will's imperfect attempt with his own pristine one and looking pleased with the exchange. He keeps Will there while he adds sausage and gammon to his plate, and then directs him to the table, ignoring Will's murmured thanks. 

He settles down across from Will, but doesn't eat, which might explain why he had given Will the good omelet, but not why he had insisted on making two to begin with. Maybe he had just wanted Will to have the chance to learn. 

"This is really good," Will says, once he's swallowed his first mouthful of succulent gammon. 

Hannibal nods, a pleased acknowledgment and dismissal of distraction both, and then asks, "Will, do you remember Abigail?" 

A face flashes through Will's mind, the long brown hair and bright blue eyes of a girl who has only ever smiled at him from under glass. 

"No," he says. "Who's Abigail?" 

"She is the girl whose disappearance Jack wishes you to investigate, though you are too ill to do so, and it would be a further trauma." 

"She's missing?" 

Worry coils in Will's gut, remembering that frozen happiness. 

"She is dead," Hannibal says calmly, and takes a bite of his omelet. 

"Oh." Will mimics Hannibal with absent sympathy, mind turning over the information he has been given. "I'm sorry. You were close to her. You must feel her loss deeply." 

"We were close to her," Hannibal corrects, slicing off another mouthful of food and chewing while he studies Will. "She is a loss to both of us." 

"She wasn't related to either of us," Will says, thinking of Hannibal's sister's face on that wall beside Abigail's, dead long before she could leave Hannibal a niece to care for. Abigail's life had been longer than hers by perhaps a decade, though that won't provide much comfort to Hannibal. "What was the nature of our relationship with her?" 

"She was our daughter," Hannibal says, and Will's face turns up in shocked disbelief, because she couldn't have been their daughter, she couldn't have been _his_ daughter. He couldn't have had a child, couldn't have made the choice to inflict himself on another person, someone who would depend on him for happiness and survival, someone he would _surely_ fail spectacularly, he _wouldn't have_ \--but he can hear the reality of that failure in the melancholy sound of Hannibal's voice. "She had to become our daughter, for there was no-one left to her after you killed her father." 

"After I--" 

"You killed her father," Hannibal tells him tranquilly. "It was your first kill, but not your last." 

Will doesn't--doesn't believe that, he _doesn't_ , but he can see Abigail lying on her family's kitchen floor, youth and health making her heart beat strongly, quickly, as she gasps up at him, as Hannibal tries to save her as her blood pumps out, staining the linoleum. 

_She shouldn't get her clothes dirty like that_ , Garret Jacob Hobbs says, leaning in to speak directly into Will's ear. _That would be making work for her mother, if she were still alive. You should punish her._ The knife is just there, clasped in Hobbs' fist where he is sprawled on the ground; Will can remember the feeling of the hilt pressing against the flat of his palm, the vicious satisfaction as he swung the blade, _finally_ , feels the fierceness of his refusal to be denied this culmination, his determination to achieve his ultimate goal in these last moments he will be given. Hobbs' blind eyes are fixed on the ceiling, ears deaf to his daughter's struggle for life even as he whispers instructions to Will, tells him how perfect it will be when he shoves the wet blade back into the cut he has already started, how _good_ it will feel when he tears through the rest of the throat that Hannibal is holding together and watches the light in her desperate eyes dwindle. But Will steps back, knocks Hobbs aside with his shoulder as he retreats from that terrified, pleading face, because Will might not be able to save her, but Will isn't going to kill her. Will doesn't-- 

"I _didn't_ ," he says, in an explosion he can't contain. "I didn't kill her." 

"Of course not," Hannibal reassures him. "You loved her. You did everything you could for her. We both did." 

"It wasn't enough." 

"No." There is no attempt at comfort. "But given who we are and what we have all done there simply was no way to save her." 

"What did we do?" Will asks urgently. 

"It is difficult to know how to begin--" 

"What did we do to save her? We had to _try_ \--" 

"You do not remember her father," Hannibal says. "It is difficult to explain her without that background. I hesitate to do so. I would not have you think her a monster." 

"I remember her father," Will tells him, and for a moment he's looking into Hobbs' eyes instead of Hannibal's. His head begins to pound. "I remember he wanted to kill her." 

"But he did not," Hannibal reminds him. "It was not Abigail whom he killed." 

"Because she was his daughter," Will says. "And he loved her. It was other girls. He killed girls who looked like her so that he wouldn't have to kill her." He doesn't remember anything but being in that kitchen with Hobbs standing over him and lying dead on the ground. "And she helped him. She--" 

"She lured their victims in," Hannibal confirms. "She acted as bait. They never would have come to his hand." 

"She was a killer," Will says, surge of nausea almost overwhelming. 

"He made her so. She did what she must to survive." 

"It feels good," Will chokes out. "Killing someone." 

Hannibal studies him calmly for a moment. "I know," he says. 

"You _know_." Will can barely speak. "How do you know?" 

"The same way you know," Hannibal tells him. "I have killed someone." 

"I killed _Hobbs_!" Will protests. "He was a serial murderer!" 

"As was Abigail," Hannibal counters. "As are we." 

"No," Will says, less in doubt than in revulsion. 

"Yes." 

"You said--You said that she acted as bait because her father wanted to kill her. That doesn't make her a murderer." 

"No," Hannibal agrees on an indrawn breath, toying with his knife. "But she participated in the ritual of his kills in the full knowledge of what it meant, and she partook of the spoils." 

"Partook--?" Will asks, before closing his eyes against the realization. "He was a cannibal." 

"Among other things. He wove their hair, and he carved their bones, and yes, he ate the meat they provided. As did Abigail." 

"But she survived that," Will says, desperate to believe it. 

"Yes." 

"I killed Hobbs, and she survived. She got away." 

"I wish that were true," Hannibal says, placing a piece of gammon in his mouth and making Will wait while he chews. "But we cannot leave these things behind. I fear you will come to know this as well as she did." 

"What do you mean?" 

"She did what she must to survive," Hannibal repeats. "And she became who she had to be." 

"She wasn't--" 

"She did not want to be," Hannibal interrupts. "But she was. Our only concern was to protect Abigail, but she turned from our guidance to find someone who would provide her with what she needed. We develop tastes for these things, you see." 

"What did she do?" 

"We escorted her upon her return to the home she had shared with her parents, hoping our presence would insulate her in some way from the memories and the attacks her neighbors sent her way. But it was not to be. She reconciled with a friend--a girl who looked very like her and believed in her innocence--and later this girl turned up dead, killed in the same manner as the final victim." 

"She wouldn't have done that," Will says. "She didn't have to do that." 

"No," Hannibal says. "She did not have to, but nevertheless she did. And when she was assaulted by the brother of one of her victims she took his life also. You did not wish to, but we helped her bury the body." 

"We--" 

"What else could we have done?" 

"I don't know, I don't--" Will's hands are shaking almost violently; he clasps them, a self-comforting gesture, but it doesn't stop the tremors. 

"We hoped this would be enough to quench her thirst, but it was not. She committed a string of murders that we helped her conceal." 

"We wouldn't have done that," Will says, blind in desperate denial. "We shouldn't--Covering up a single attack by a traumatized girl would have been one thing, but a _string_ \--" 

"We should not," Hannibal says with a trace of sadness. "But we did. And eventually--we partook." 

The tremors spread from Will's hands to his entire body. "We partook? Partook of what?" 

"We did not realize," Hannibal tells him. "At first. And when we did--We loved her. What could we do?" 

"What did we do?" Will asks, horrified. 

"We helped her in any way we could." 

"We didn't _help_ her," Will says, watching it play out before his eyes. "We killed with her." 

"Yes," Hannibal says. It isn't an admission, because Hannibal doesn't feel any guilt about it. "We did everything we could for her." 

"We became her fathers," Will says faintly, blinking away Abigail's wide eyes as she shoves her knife into the person in front of her and drags it deliberately down, gutting her victim, blinking away Hannibal's methodical actions as he disposes of her kills the way her father had, making such effective use of every part of the body that it will never be found, blinks away the blood on his own hands as if he can possibly be washed clean. 

There's no need for him to shower; it would be a waste of time. He's never getting this filth off. 

"We gave her what she needed," he says, watching himself move effortlessly through the stages of skinning a human being as if they are an animal. It isn't as if he doesn't know how. "We became who she needed us to be. Fathers who wouldn't kill her." 

"Yes--" Hannibal murmurs. 

"Who loved the person she became in response to our need." 

"Who loved her back," Hannibal says. "I am sorry you have lost the memory of her love." 

"What happened?" Will is struggling to regulate his breathing, the edge of the table cutting into his palms doing nothing to assist him in his attempt. "What happened to her?" 

The pain in Hannibal's face is obvious, undisguised by his natural reserve. 

"While the three of us were going about our business, the FBI were making every possible effort to identify us. Jack Crawford saw Abigail for who she was, and he discovered her involvement in her father's killings. He attempted to arrest her for those killings and others she had committed, but she was with you when he sought her out." 

"He isn't aware of my relationship with either of you," Will says. "He doesn't believe me capable of having an intimate relationship with anybody. I shouldn't, he's right about that--" 

"No," Hannibal says sharply. "He is not." 

"What happened to her? Where is she? What did I do?" 

"You summoned me," Hannibal tells him, eyes shuttered, tension appearing around his mouth for the first time. "And I killed her. There was nothing else that I could do." 

Hannibal breaks their gaze first, an unusual self-consciousness in his movements as he returns to his neglected meal. Will is still trembling, but he knows he needs to get himself under control, and it's a relief when instinct drives him to mirror Hannibal, forking up a mouthful of omelet. 

And then he tastes her tongue. 

He twists to the side and vomits onto the floor beside his chair. 

"I will clean that up," Hannibal says, the legs of his chair scraping the floor as he stands. "You are more in need of sustenance than I." 

"What?" 

Will can't force himself upright, but at least he isn't going to vomit again; he has that under control now, though he can't do anything about the shaking, or the hysterical tenor of his voice, or the sweat that has broken out, staining the armpits and back of his shirt, wetting the skin of his groin and face. 

"Keep eating," Hannibal instructs practically. "You need your strength." He's pulling cleaning supplies from the cupboard under the sink, but he stops to fix Will with a severe look. "But wash your mouth out first." 

Will doesn't realize he's going to laugh until he hears the jagged sound, and then he's joining Hannibal at the sink, propping himself up on arms that might not hold his weight. He can't feel his legs, can't feel his feet against the floor. Hannibal hands him a glass of water, and Will knows he's meant to rinse his mouth, but he drinks it thirstily down instead. 

Hannibal pours him another, and he perfunctorily swirls and spits. He's already swallowed most of the residue. 

"Eat," Hannibal says. 

There's a faint note of criticism there, as if Will had accepted a dinner invitation and then turned his nose up at the spread. The walk back to the table is vertiginous, but he makes it into his seat, and stares at the meat awaiting his enjoyment as Hannibal quickly and efficiently cleans up after him. 

He had enjoyed it. 

"This has come as a shock to you," Hannibal says, returning to his seat and picking up his cutlery, chopping off a bite of sausage. "But it is necessary that you become acclimatized to the realities of our life. I cannot protect you from them." 

"You could," Will says slowly, watching Hannibal chew. "You chose not to. You were concerned about my reaction if I discovered--what it was you were cooking for me." 

"Do you blame me?" Hannibal asks. 

"It's a natural fear." 

"Your food will grow cold," Hannibal offers. The pretense at helpfulness is almost convincing, because Hannibal has shown himself to be a considerate man, but Will recognizes the drive to re-establish intimacy lurking beneath. 

His stomach twists. "I can't eat this." 

"Why not?" 

It's a ridiculous question, but Will answers it despite himself. "You said she was our _daughter_! I can't do this to somebody I was supposed to--" 

"But I can," Hannibal says. "Necessity drives my actions here. Do you blame me for that, Will? For doing what I must?" 

Will does, but it feels far too unfair to tell Hannibal that. Abigail had taken the shape the uncaring world had forced her into; he can't tell Hannibal he judges him for doing the same. He stares down at the table. 

"She would not have done so," Hannibal says. Will thinks that's probably true, if Hannibal had any influence on her, if he guided her in these matters the way a father should, because he knows Hannibal would not have blamed her if she had been the one sitting here, feasting on his flesh. Hannibal would have fought for life, but if he had lost he would have wished for this, Will knows, to become part of the pattern he helped to weave, to be consumed entirely by the people he had helped to shape, to _matter_ enough that they would go on weaving without him. "But you do not know that this is a tribute she would have wished, because you do not even remember her. This should cause you far less distress than it causes me." 

He saws through his cut of her meat, and Will wonders, sickly, what that used to be--the curve of her hip, or perhaps the swell of a buttock. 

"It causes me distress," he says helplessly, barely blinking as the fork travels to Hannibal's mouth, as Hannibal's lips close gently around the perfectly cooked meat. 

"I know," Hannibal says, once he has swallowed, and Will feels something that has been clenched tightly inside his chest release at the recognition of his pain. "I'm sorry." 

"I can't," Will says miserably, thinking of those shining, smiling eyes, this tongue inside that wide-stretched mouth, and hating himself for failing her once again. "I just can't." 

"I understand," Hannibal says, considering him. He pulls Will's plate across the table and makes some substitutions, taking his omelet and whatever it is that Hannibal had called _gammon_ , and replacing them with what's left of Hannibal's sausage. "This will suffice." 

Will studies the plate Hannibal pushes back over, wondering idly from whom the sausage had originated--a less satisfactory source, Hannibal had said. 

_She's dead_ , he thinks, feeling foolish at the pit of grief that yawns inside him for a girl he doesn't know and never will now, wondering why they are doing this, because she's _dead_ , they shouldn't-- 

They never should have, but they did, and now they are. 

Bread and circuses, he supposes. You develop a taste for these things. You become whoever the person you love needs you to be, and even after they're gone, that is who you are. 

Will doesn't remember being this person. He wonders whether Hannibal would change again, if Will needed it, now that Will is the only one he loves. But Will loves Hannibal too, and he can't ask that of him. He doesn't want to know what the answer would be. 

Hannibal's eyes are resting on his face, steady and undemanding. 

Will eats. 

He feels faintly nauseous even after he's swallowed his last bite, but it was easier to eat than it is to watch Hannibal do so, knowing what he does about what it is they are consuming. Will has never been a parent, never taken responsibility for anyone the way he thinks Hannibal must have for that sister of his, so perhaps his difficulty accepting Abigail's nature is understandable. Parents as a whole commonly have difficulty coming to terms with their children's choices when they perceive those choices as deviant; Will had never thought he would be a parent, would have to consider the harm he might inflict on a child with his judgment of their character and actions. 

And after all, that isn't something he has to worry about. He can't remember any damage he may have done to Abigail while she was alive. All he has to do is combat the gnawing guilt, the conviction that he _could_ have done more, that if he had tried harder, been more himself, he and Hannibal between them could have turned her course, stayed her hand, kept her alive. 

All he has to do is continue to forget however it was that he had failed her. 

He places his knife and fork neatly on his plate beside the small amount of sausage skin he hadn't been able to scrape up. 

"Did she know I loved her?" he asks, staring at the grease smearing the china. 

"Will," Hannibal remonstrates. 

"Don't," Will says unevenly, looking up helplessly at Hannibal, at the controlled deliberateness of the man who never would have failed anyone he took responsibility for in such a way, who never would have let Abigail doubt that she was loved, no matter what her faults might have been. "I know you think--I know you think that I can do this, because I do it with you. But I can't. I _couldn't_ , I--" 

"Will." Hannibal cuts him off with definite fingers under his jaw, firm thumb stilling his lips. "You did. I understand your fear, but you have proven yourself more capable than you believe. She knew you loved her." Will shakes his head in denial, but Hannibal's nod gainsays him. "The tragedy that has befallen us is not one you could have prevented." 

There's a flicker of concern trapped in Hannibal's eyes, held where it can't affect anything, where it can't slump his shoulders or sour his face, where it can't work its way into the steady hand holding Will, can't work its way _into_ Will, who _wishes_ he had that kind of restraint, but mostly is just glad that Hannibal does. He watches that lingering trace of worry drift behind a cloud, hidden but still present, and thinks of the things he has seen in the past, the couples he has seen left behind to deal with this kind of loss. He has never seen one survive. His hand clenches around Hannibal's. 

"I should have prevented it," Hannibal says. 

"No." 

"Yes. It was not you who killed her, just as it was not Abigail who killed her father's victims." Will's head is still shaking, but Hannibal is speaking over his attempt to--refute, or reassure, or whatever it is he needs to do here. It feels inappropriate to reassure Hannibal given who they are and what they have done, but the impulse is overwhelming. "This was my choice. It is my responsibility. I should have been able to protect us all." 

" _I_ should have," Will says fiercely. "I was--I was _working_ with the people investigating these crimes, helping them interpret the evidence. I should have been able to conceal our existence from them." 

"You tried," Hannibal says, sparing him his share of the blame. 

"I should have succeeded." 

"It is easy," Hannibal says contemplatively, "to say that we would have done things differently. But we make the choices we do for a reason, and I could never regret choosing you. I hope you would not regret choosing us." Will shakes his head frantically, sure on that point, but Hannibal ignores the response, because Will can't know that. "And although I regret that I was not successful in my efforts to shield our relationship with Abigail from Jack's investigation, her death will enable us to be successful in that endeavor now." His eyes pin Will. "I will not lose you too." 

"No," Will says desperately. "You won't." 

Despite the trauma of losing the girl they had served as substitute fathers, he means that more sincerely than he has ever meant anything, because he doesn't want Hannibal to lose anything else, doesn't want to be the cause of that shadow stealing into Hannibal's eyes, but more than that, more than his worry over how the death of a child typically affects relationships and how it might affect _their_ relationship, Will knows he wouldn't survive losing Hannibal. 

He may not recognize the person he has become, but he can see where he fits in the empty spaces that surround Hannibal, and it's easy to shape himself to fill them when he wants to be able to do that so badly. 

He doesn't want to know who he would be without Hannibal there to mold himself around. 

He wonders whether he would exist at all. 

"What do we need to do?" he asks, and his lips curl at the relief that washes the darkness from Hannibal's face. 

Hannibal makes Will dry the dishes first, which is a small price to pay for the meal. 

"I can wash," Will offers, but Hannibal refuses with a pleased smile. 

Hannibal was right: Will _is_ uncomfortable sharing domestic tasks like this, but it's easier now than it was earlier, and he thinks once he grows more used to it again, only the pleasure in the intimacy will remain. 

"Now I must go downstairs," Hannibal says, toweling his hands off, eyes sharp on Will. "You do not have to join me." 

"I do," Will says, attempting a smile, though he thinks it may be more of a grimace. "I do have to. I would have before." 

"But this is not before," Hannibal reminds him needlessly. "You are not used to these things." 

"I want to be." 

Hannibal considers this while Will forces himself to display only confidence under Hannibal's examination. He doesn't succeed, but Hannibal lets him slide, hope buoying him, perhaps. It's been a long time since Will has cleaved to something as elusive as hope, but he has allowed himself to do so with Hannibal, and it's a relief to see Hannibal do the same. 

"Come," Hannibal decides, and leads Will down. 

Hannibal's basement is a well-constructed area, with good lighting, clean white tiles lining the walls, a freezer, and a metal workbench. The presence of the workbench would not have attracted Will's attention were it not for the human remains laid out on top. The door at the top of the stairs hadn't been locked. Will can't help his nervous glance upwards. 

"Nobody will drop in on us unexpectedly," Hannibal says. "They rarely do, and certainly not at this time of morning. Besides, I would hear a car approach." 

"Down here?" Will asks, grinning. 

"Yes, but I will lock the door to set you at ease." 

Hannibal smiles at him, and jogs smartly back up the steps, leaving Will alone with their dead. He pushes his glasses more securely into place, clears his throat, studying the limbs and chunks of flesh sitting tidily on the table in pools of dried blood. Hannibal would undoubtedly have wiped that down before returning upstairs, but he hadn't had time to finish, and it had only been Will in the house, nobody to worry him. 

Will lifts his glasses and rubs at his eyes, then frowns at the tableau in front of him. His mind is drawing on his knowledge of anatomy and making connections, but this jigsaw won't complete, because there are too many-- _corners_ a woman's voice says, her face thoughtful as she stares up at a grotesque totem outlined against a pale sky--too many pieces; no matter how Will's mind assembles what he sees it won't add up to anything whole. 

When he looks up, Hannibal is standing beside him, watching his reverie. 

"I didn't lose time," Will says, checking. He doesn't feel like he has, thinks Hannibal just moves silently when he wishes, but he can't be sure. 

"No." Hannibal turns his attention to the table. "You were merely involved in your work." 

"There's more to do than I expected." 

"There always is," Hannibal says ruefully. 

"There are two bodies." 

"Yes." 

"Do we usually--" Will can't quite form the question he wants to ask. "--leave incriminating evidence lying around for such a lengthy period of time? That seems unwise." 

Hannibal's jaw tightens minutely in response to the criticism. "We do not. It has been rather a hectic few days. In fact, we do not usually bring our meat home in such a state at all. We use premises unconnected to either of our residences for the initial butchery of the carcasses, and by the time we return home with our meat it is quite unremarkable to the eye. I prepare our meals in the kitchen upstairs, and nobody who has seen me do so has thought twice about it." 

"Oh," Will says, following Hannibal as he steps towards the table. "That's--" It's a relief, to know that there is some distance between his home and the acts that threaten it and him; the safety may be illusory, but false comfort still warms. "This is in case of emergency?" 

"This is certainly an emergency," Hannibal says grimly. "I would prefer to finish my preparations on Abigail before she loses more of her tenderness." Will can see the difference in color and toughness to which Hannibal refers, and he wonders how long the second party has been awaiting this attention. "It would be a shame if she were to spoil." 

"Yes," Will agrees automatically, and then adds, loyally, "She won't." 

"No," Hannibal murmurs, pleasure tinging the word with sweetness. "I will not let her. Will you finish carving our carcass for me? It has lost much of its succulence, but we must not let it go to waste." 

"No," Will says, because that's true: you shouldn't waste food even when you haven't paid for it, and although they may not have spent money, they've certainly paid for this meal. 

Hannibal touches one long finger to a gleaming knife that lies waiting among the assortment of tools, nothing more than a suggestion, in case Will has forgotten enough of himself to need it. He hasn't, but it's a good choice. 

He separates his jigsaw pieces from Hannibal's, pulls his incomplete puzzle to one side, and picks up his knife. 

It's difficult at first, ignoring Hannibal standing shoulder to shoulder with him, engrossed in his own task. It's difficult ignoring the flash of Hannibal's knife as he cuts into Abigail's body. 

Will has his own tasks to concentrate on, though, and it's easy enough to let himself be distracted by the familiar work of slicing fat from meat, pulling ligaments and tendons apart and sawing roughly through the tangle to sever a joint whole. Hannibal probably can't serve this, though, unless they are eating alone, because many of the people Hannibal might have over to dinner would recognize the bones that comprise the human skeleton quite as well as Will does. 

"Did you just want breast and loin?" Will asks. "For safety?" 

"No," Hannibal says, a slight stoniness creeping into his manner. "The fridge upstairs is perfectly safe. Visitors do not open it and look with suspicion upon my meat." 

"No," Will agrees, receiving the message loud and clear, biting down on the urge to apologize. That hadn't been intended as criticism even if Hannibal had read it that way, and he doesn't even know where he would start to clear that up, because there are several incorrect assumptions Hannibal could have made: that Will believed his guests would be presumptuous enough to snoop, or that Hannibal would not be able to prevent them from prying, or that he would be stupid enough to risk them if there were any chance of discovery. He doesn't think mentioning any of those possibilities would improve Hannibal's mood. "Of course not." 

Hannibal glances sideways at Will from under his lashes, but the sudden tension dissipates with Will's easy agreement, and Will finds himself shuffling into relaxation in turn. 

"Remove the liver if you can," Hannibal instructs, and now Will is the offended party. 

"Of course I can!" he protests indignantly. 

"Forgive me," Hannibal says, reaching for a scalpel. "I was unsure whether your unfortunate loss of memory might cause you to suffer qualms. It would have been understandable." 

"I'm fine." Will doesn't mean to sound angry. He channels it into the work he has left to do, cuts coming quick and strong. 

"I know." He's concentrating on his own hands, on the flesh and bone and blood beneath them, but he can see Hannibal out of the corner of his eye, splitting Abigail's chest wide open. "I am very glad of it." 

"As long as you're happy." 

There's a pause while Hannibal begins his work on her innards--removing her lungs, Will thinks, but he refuses the glance necessary to confirm. 

"You are upset with me," Hannibal says, once he reaches a less delicate stage of proceedings. 

"I'm not upset _with_ you," Will says, growing increasingly angry in the face of Hannibal's acceptance. "I don't know how you would expect me not to be upset about this." 

"I understand." 

Will has to force his hand not to clench around the liver it cradles. He places it gently on the workbench and moves on, tearing into what little is left to him. 

"But I am upset also, and I do not appreciate this petulance." 

Will squeezes this time, and blood oozes from between his fingers. "Well I don't appreciate watching you cut--" He spins to face Hannibal as he speaks, and stops dead, eyes riveted by Abigail's chest cavity, by the hollowed-out emptiness of her. All that's left is her heart. 

"You are welcome to take the duty off my hands," Hannibal says evenly, bent over his work, none of his attention spared for Will. 

"No," Will croaks, throat dry. 

"It must be done." 

"I know," Will says. "Let's go back upstairs. We have time, it's early, Jack won't--" 

"No." The response is so calm that for a moment Will mistakes it for agreement. "Not until we are finished here." 

Will drifts closer in the quiet, watching the curve of Hannibal's back, watching what he can see of Hannibal's intent face, his hands inside Abigail's chest. 

When he lifts them out, they are smeared red, redder than the heart he holds in his hands. 

"We're done," Will says, staring. "Are we going to eat that?" 

Hannibal draws breath to answer, even though Will already knows, knows they will eat her heart along with everything else, the parts of her Will hasn't seen: eyes and toes and brain and every other part of her that they had loved. 

They _had_ loved all of her. Will knows that too. 

"We are not done," Hannibal says severely, attention diverted by the scraps Will has left on the plate. "You have so little left here that I must insist you finish the job now." 

Will turns back to the table impatiently, and does, coiling the mess of intestine for later use, shaving thin strips of lunchmeat from a half-bare bone, wondering whether Hannibal would like that liver chopped or minced but refusing to ask, chopping it quickly and neatly and figuring Hannibal can do what he likes with it later. 

"We're done," he snaps, and turns around into Hannibal, into Hannibal's hands on his face and Hannibal's mouth biting into his own, and Will is still so angry that all he can do is bite back. 

The force of Hannibal's advance makes him stumble backwards into the table, catching his hip sharply on the edge and rattling their abandoned tools. He can't spare a thought for his own pain, though, not when he's surging up against Hannibal, not when the curl of his shoulders distorts, sends him arching towards Hannibal in invitation, and his hands dig through the pretty camouflage of Hannibal's clothes to scratch at the skin beneath. 

Hannibal attempts to shove him up onto the table, but Will scrambles until he falls away from the cold surface and crashes onto his knees. It's surprisingly easy to pull Hannibal down with him. 

There is a dirty blade in Hannibal's hand, and it makes short work of Will's clothing, slicing it to shreds as Will tears at Hannibal, as he tries to think--Hannibal should be stopping him, should be angry, wouldn't like this mad, messy loss of control so alien to his hard-won restraint and sublimation-- 

But Hannibal isn't sublimating anything now, accepting Will's passion and returning it in kind, digging punishing fingers into hours-old bruises on Will's hips and ass, sliding even, white teeth over the tender flesh of Will's inner lip until it tears with a shock of pain, and Hannibal sucks on the wound like he had on Will's finger, like he had on Will's tongue, like this is as good as a kiss. 

Once the throb fades and sensation rushes in, Will discovers that it isn't as good as a kiss: it's better. The surprise drives him to move, ignites in him a determination not to be overwhelmed here as he has been everywhere else, knocks the directionless frustration out of him and sets him a course to chart. 

He stops scrabbling at the soft skin under Hannibal's shirt and moves to the open vee of the collar instead, one more way Hannibal has allowed himself to signal their intimacy. When he pulls it apart, threads snap and buttons scatter, and he believes this to be unlike himself, but Hannibal doesn't censor the choice, pressing closer as Will slides greasy hands under the waist of his pants, tugs roughly at the buttons there until they give. 

He likes touching Hannibal, likes knowing that he isn't the only one affected by this, knowing that he _can_. He's satisfied by the simplicity of the contact, the straight-forwardness of the action and the response it brings, pleased when Hannibal loses patience and brushes his touch aside, forces his way between Will's eagerly spread thighs, and sets his teeth too hard against Will's jugular as he shoves his way back inside Will's body. 

Will still hasn't washed; he thinks they're both glad of that now. 

His shoulders arch off the hard ground, lifting him towards Hannibal; the position changes the angle of his neck and tugs at the skin held tight between Hannibal's teeth. Will licks the wound inside his mouth, swallows down the sharp, coppery taste of his blood, and moans as he imagines Hannibal sucking on his throat with as much pleasure as he had Will's mouth, imagines the bruises that would bloom because Hannibal wished for them, imagines the blood that would rise to the surface and darken his skin, perhaps fill Hannibal's mouth instead of his own. He licks at the cut on his lip again, drawing fresh blood each time he tastes it. 

Hannibal keeps his teeth on Will's throat and his hands on Will's hips, grinding him against the dusty concrete as they fuck, and Will doesn't try to hold back, doesn't try to be polite or restrain himself from taking what he wants, and he thinks that's why Hannibal gives it to him, moves with every demand Will makes and gives him more than he had known he wanted. 

Will remembers that he likes getting fucked, remembers how much he had enjoyed it earlier, but somehow it's still astonishing how broken open he feels by the pleasure, how utterly incapable he is of keeping that inside, of holding in the harsh noises that tear out of his chest, the pants that catch and sound almost like sobs. 

And it's impossible to hold still under the pressure, under the pressure of Hannibal's hand, the thrill in the tightness of the fist with which Hannibal strips his cock. He aches inside where Hannibal drags out of him, lighting up nerve endings, lighting up his mind, and he aches where Hannibal's teeth scrape over his Adam's apple, and he aches when Hannibal's hands leave his hips to cradle his face instead, when he kisses Will slowly and deeply as he pushes further into him, deeper inside than Will has ever allowed anybody to go. 

It hurts, he thinks; he can't be sure, because he's marvelling at the desperate, happy sound of his voice as it rises and fills the air, and then he's coming. 

He doesn't fall asleep this time, but he gives himself a while to recuperate before he moves, letting his thigh drop off Hannibal's waist. His head is hazy, though his vision is clear. He pulls his glasses off and polishes them on the tail of Hannibal's shirt just to be sure. 

"Are you all right?" Hannibal asks, definitively not amused, but amenable to indulging Will. 

"Yeah," Will says. "I don't know." 

"Time for another antibiotic." 

Hannibal heaves Will to his feet. Will wants to protest the coddling, but there are some spotty places in his head, recent memories inked out, gaps where there should have been experience: Hannibal coming, letting Will drape over him like a blanket, the bite that has broken skin on his nipple, left it vividly painful. He thinks Hannibal is probably right. He tries to remember where he left his medication. 

Hannibal pulls the amber bottle from the pocket of his pants, which have somehow been salvaged, though the shirt is a dead loss, lack of buttons leaving it flung wide. Will wishes it were just his shirt that had given up the ghost, and then he wonders whether he has more clothing here. 

He's trying to decide what he will do if he doesn't when Hannibal pushes the capsule between his lips and lets his thumb rest there, holding Will's mouth closed while he watches patiently. Will swallows. Hannibal's gaze softens, and he tugs at Will's lip, dragging his thumb over the raw cut he made and left for Will to worsen. Will gasps silently, frozen, rapt. 

He thinks this is a reward. 

This feels like a reward. 

"Come," Hannibal says. "Upstairs. Jack will undoubtedly arrive soon, and I wish to discuss what we will tell him." 

"It's early," Will says, though it's fast approaching time to rise. He's unreasonably exhausted by everything that's happened, and his head is in his bed. 

"Very well," Hannibal agrees. "It is plain that you are tired, and I would not want your memory to lapse in front of Jack because I deprived you of an hour's sleep. Two trips should do, and then you can have a little more rest." 

Will doesn't want to carry all that food upstairs right now, but he doesn't protest, because Hannibal is already taking it easy on him. He gathers his load alongside Hannibal, paying closer attention to the product of Hannibal's labors than he had earlier. The lungs look good, and although stomachs are never attractive it will probably be tasty. Everything Hannibal cooks is, even if there is rather more viscera involved than Will would have expected. He didn't think people ate spleens, but it's the only thing left on his side of the table, so he tucks it into the crook of his elbow and turns to mount the stairs. 

"The blood," Hannibal says, reaching past him and picking up a beaker of dark liquid Will hadn't even glanced at. "For my next attempt at sausage." He tucks it into Will's other arm and picks up his own neatly packed tray. "We will do this all at once after all. Do you have everything?" 

"I think so," Will says, and then, because he knows that isn't an answer Hannibal wants to hear: "Yes." 

"Very well." Hannibal leads the way up the stairs and into the kitchen. "I have no need for your assistance. You should return to bed." 

"I should shower," Will says, touching his thigh awkwardly. 

Hannibal looks away from the refrigerator, becoming riveted by Will's face. 

"What?" Will asks self-consciously. 

"Nothing," Hannibal says, but he comes over and touches the soft skin in the hollow of Will's eye anyway, leans in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek. "You are right. I cannot guarantee that we will not have a guest before you awaken, and Jack seeing you this way would be unfortunate for everyone concerned. You know where everything is?" 

"I do," Will says, truth turning wry in his mouth. 

Hannibal steps back reluctantly, but his smile does a poor job of concealing his happiness as he waves Will away. 

When he gets to the top of the stairs, Will returns to the nook in the wall to look at the only photograph he cares about with eyes that know the people it contains a little better now. Abigail's face is just as bright and hopeful as he remembers it, and his pain is just as real, but the person he sees wearing his face is familiar now, living somewhere inside him. He thinks he remembers how to smile like that, now, even if he's never been happy enough to do it all the time. He knows he can make Hannibal smile like that. He just has. 

He doesn't realize why until he's in Hannibal's bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. He touches his face the way Hannibal had, fingers delicate on the blood he wears like a mask. Hannibal's fingers had been firmer when they had been painting him, when Hannibal had clasped Will's face in his hands so that they could kiss, but Will still isn't entirely used to these things. 

He can see Hannibal's handprints in the blood, can see Hannibal's fingerprints all over himself. 

He thinks about skipping the rinse, getting straight into bed the way Hannibal had initially suggested, smearing his face over Hannibal's pillow, flaking dried blood onto the sheets as he runs his hands down his body, over the place Hannibal's body will be. He thinks about waiting for Hannibal like that. 

He gets into the shower, and washes himself free of blood and come and grime, replacing them with the clean, masculine scent of Hannibal's soap. 

He's toweled himself dry and is considering whether Hannibal would prefer Will borrow clothing or robe when the doorbell rings impatiently. The robe feels less presumptuous, but Hannibal has already instructed him to presume, and he'll surely have to borrow clothing when he wakes, anyway-- 

The doorbell rings again, and Will throws on the robe and makes his way down the stairs. Making Jack wait won't do wonders for his disposition. 

"Hello," Will starts, pulling open the door, but he hesitates when he sees the person behind it. 

"Will!" she exclaims, pushing past him into the hall. "What are you doing here?" 

"I needed somewhere to stay," he says, though that isn't what he means. If he'd managed to have that discussion with Hannibal he feels sure they would have come up with a plan for this, too, but as things stand he doesn't know what he wants to say, never mind how to say it. 

"And you came to Hannibal?" She frowns. "Does Hannibal know you're here? Does--" 

"I should let him know _you're_ here," Will tries, thinking, _who shall I say is calling_ , and, _do we care_? 

"But why didn't you call me? I've been so worried, Will. We all have. Why did you come here?" 

"Hannibal and I have been involved for a while," Will mumbles. "I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else." 

The woman's face twists into incredulity. "That isn't true." 

"Yes, it is," Will says, gearing up to an invented explanation of Hannibal's concern with the appearance of propriety and the need to maintain a professional distance in the workplace, but the woman is shaking her head decisively. 

"No, it isn't," she insists. "Because we're--because you're interested in _me_." 

"I'm what?" Will asks, smiling, reflecting her incredulity the way he has been reflecting Hannibal. Though the motivation is different, the commonality of behavior suggests that this is a character trait. It's ironic that a tic that subjugates his agency and personality reassures him that he is acting like himself. "You're mistaken." 

"I'm not mistaken," she says. "What's wrong with you?" 

The question is valid, but it angers him anyway, and his politeness is strained when he asks, "Why are you here?" 

"I'm looking for Abigail," she says, gaze sharpening on him. "Have you seen her?" 

"I would have alerted Jack if I had," he assures her. "Hannibal told me she's been missing for some time. He's very worried." 

"Hannibal--" she murmurs, frowning. "Is he here?" 

"Of course he's here," Will says, annoyed. There's a level of implicit criticism in the question that he doesn't feel is permissible from this woman, this interloper with her clinical, disapproving gaze. "He was in the kitchen, last I saw." The carving knife Hannibal had been using last, part of the guest china rather than the downstairs everyday, has been abandoned on an occasional table. Will hopes he hasn't been abandoned with it. He wishes he knew where Hannibal was, whether he has left the house, left Will alone and at the mercy of this unsettling stranger. "But I just got out of the shower, so--" 

"Hannibal should know better than this," she says, voice growing frustrated, no longer troubling to hide the disapproval behind the psychiatrist's detachment. "I'd say you should know better, but--I think we both know that you don't make choices that are to your own benefit." 

"But you would," Will says, and then, with disgusted understanding: "You have." 

"Hannibal clearly won't." Her eyes turn flinty as she gives voice to a conclusion reached long since. "Someone has to." 

"Not you," he tells her, smiling. "Thanks, though." 

"Will, I don't understand what's going on here." 

"You're not required to understand me." 

"What's your relationship with Hannibal?" She's staring at the robe, at the less intimate choice. Will wonders what her face would have looked like if he'd come down to answer the door with one of Hannibal's waistcoats thrown carelessly over damp, sticky skin. "You can't seriously believe that you two are a couple." 

"And now you're telling me what to _believe_." 

She shakes her head in distressed dismissal. "Where's Hannibal? Where's Abigail?" 

"Abigail isn't here, so you should probably look--" 

"She _is_ ," the woman interrupts sharply. "I know she is." 

Will wants to argue her out of the conviction, but he isn't familiar enough with the circumstances of Abigail's disappearance to counter her with confidence. 

"Is Hannibal hiding her? I told Jack that we could trust Hannibal, but--" Her gaze is on his chest, on the bruises and bites that cut deeply into him, revealed by the gape of the soft ivory silk. "--I'm beginning to question my own judgment on that. Did he do that to you? Will, did he _do_ that to you?" 

"I trust Hannibal," Will says politely. It doesn't really matter whether she shares that trust; she certainly doesn't share Will's knowledge of Hannibal, or the pain and trauma that has bound them in irreversible intimacy. 

"Has Hannibal told you that Abigail isn't here? Is he lying to you?" 

She looks desperate to believe that he is. "Hannibal doesn't lie to me." 

"Has he even told you that Abigail is being sought in connection with several of the murders you've been investigating?" She's sorry to break the news, and sure that she is doing so. "He hasn't, has he? I know you had theorized that the Chesapeake Ripper--" 

"Hannibal doesn't lie to me," Will repeats gently, watching her face change gradually in acknowledgement. 

"I'm sorry," she says earnestly, as if he needs to be told, as if he needs this gentle handling. "I know you feel responsible for Abigail, but--" 

"I was responsible for Abigail," he says, sure of it at last. "We both were." 

The change sweeps over her quickly this time, that sudden, sick realization that is far too familiar to Will. Nothing about her makes him feel sick; she must not matter very much to him at all. 

"Who are you?" he asks, mildly curious, watching undecided as possibilities vacillate wildly over her face. There is still possibility here: perhaps she does not fully understand and will refuse to let herself do so; perhaps her choice will sway theirs. Perhaps not. 

Will wishes Hannibal were here. 

"Who are you?" she asks, as if he is the stranger. "Where is Abigail? Where's--" 

"Will!" Hannibal calls, voice echoing in the stairwell that leads downstairs. It's a relief that he will join them, decide how they will explain themselves and defuse the odd tension that Will can't quite understand. The woman looks relieved too. "Are you finished showering? You did not bring everything upstairs after all, so I had to retrieve Abigail's--" 

A flicker of fear washes through the woman's body, but she freezes as she stares past Will at Hannibal as he swings out of the stairway and into the hall, and fear and relief and everything else vanish, swallowed by the shock. 

"Oh," Hannibal says, surprised. "Hello, Alana. I was not expecting you." 

When Will turns to welcome Hannibal into the conversation he is ignored, because all Hannibal's focus is on Alana. 

His dark eyes are luminous in his wraith-pale face; Abigail's heart is dark as night held in his hands, blackness oozing over him, staining his skin as he has stained Will's. Alana would surely object to that too, to the evidence of devotion and experience and memory. 

It should be pumping, should be strong as it beats and urges her towards death, the way Will remembers, the way he will always remember her, but it still bleeds out onto Hannibal's cuffs as he holds it aloft towards Alana like an offering not meant for her. 

"Will--" he says. 

"Yeah," Will says. 

There's a relief in this, too, in the closing off of possibility, in the certainty he feels as he moves towards the table. 

"Will," she tries, helpless in desperation, hysteria rising her voice to a shriek. 

The sound cuts off when the blade slices into her throat, sliding through her larynx and cutting her vocal cords. A raspy, wheezing sound issues from her mouth. Will can feel her breath against his ear, as if she is whispering him a secret. 

Her eyes look like Abigail's until he rips the knife back out of her throat, finishing the job the way Hobbs hadn't been able, severing jugular and carotid in one confident sweep. 

The light in her eyes dims before it dies, the way it must have in Abigail's, though he had never seen it happen. 

He's fiercely, selfishly glad Hannibal had been the one to do this to Abigail. He's almost glad to be able to do this for Hannibal now. 

She falls away from him, and he lets her go. 

"Did we know her well?" 

"Yes," Hannibal says sadly, "both of us. I had been professionally acquainted with her for years, and our friendship was close and of long duration. At one point she expressed a romantic interest in you, but I am happy to report that your refusal did not cause a breach." 

"Oh," Will says vaguely, watching her blood stain the floor beneath her slumped body. Such an injury results in death in approximately one minute, but he's lost track of time. "That's good." 

"It must be a comfort to us now," Hannibal says, clinical distance reminiscent of hers, but somehow managing to ease the nagging pangs Will can't interpret or suppress. 

"I'm sorry," Will says suddenly, frowning down at her. "I should have done this in the kitchen. It would have been easier to clean." 

"Quite all right," Hannibal says kindly. "You are not yourself, but you are getting there." He smiles warmly at Will. "But I'm afraid this is hardwood, and that is not going to come out. I expect Jack will arrive soon. We must move the rug from the spare bedroom downstairs. We are lucky it is suited to the hall. Nobody will notice anything amiss. But before we move the rug, we must move the body." 

Hannibal's hands are still full, so Will wraps the warm body in protective plastic sheeting, readying it to descend the stairs. They're lucky Hannibal prepares so well for contingencies. Will wouldn't have been able to do this on his own. 

Butchering this carcass goes more quickly now that Will remembers how, but he doesn't get to sleep, barely gets to shiver a relieved breath of a smile out at Hannibal before Jack is hammering at Hannibal's front door, bellowing fit to wake the dead. 

*

_Epilogue_

"What do you see?" Jack asks. 

Will looks around at the display with a reluctance Hannibal has assured him has always been characteristic of his demeanor at crime scenes. It appears he has always been withdrawn and unstable; he's grateful for that now, with his need for such protective coloration so great. Any small missteps he has made have been brushed aside as nothing more than one of his foibles, and nobody has challenged him or asked him for any kind of explanation. Nobody has the slightest suspicion; he is as unremarkable as a plate of Hannibal's finest chopped liver. 

"Yes, Will," Hannibal prompts. "Tell us what it is you see." 

Will forces himself to focus. The calm expectation is a weight too heavy to lift, and discomfort crawls under his skin. He feels exposed all the time now, as if these people who watch with gaping eyes and marvel at his sideshow can read him as well as he reads the dead, as if they know him as well. He knows nobody sees him at all, but the fear that the scales will fall from their eyes and they will see who he is lingers and taints everything he touches here. 

He won't do this work much longer. Hannibal has told him he won't have to do this much longer. 

"This was a mistake," he says, attention catching on the turn events here had taken, the unexpected twist. "He didn't intend to kill her. But once he had--" 

"Time for your medicine," Hannibal says, holding the vial out and shaking a capsule into Will's cupped palms. Will ignores Jack's flat, disapproving stare as he swallows the capsule dry. 

"Once he had killed her he decided that calling an ambulance would be too much trouble and he should lay her out like a sacrifice for the devil instead?" Jack asks skeptically. 

"He wasn't alone," Will says shakily, deliberately letting his lashes obscure his eyes. "He killed her, but the aftermath--this wasn't his design." 

"It never is," Jack says heavily, eyes dwelling on Will. 

He's thinking of Abigail, and imagines Will is too, is blaming himself for bringing Alana into her orbit, for inadvertently bringing about Alana's presumed death and Abigail's flight from justice. He wonders whether Will blames himself for killing Hobbs, and setting his daughter's feet on a path even darker than the one she had walked before. He wonders whether Will wishes he had spared Hobbs, had never even identified him; he wonders if Will imagines that would have spared them all this fate, and how Will would have chosen, had he known. 

Seeing the doubt in Jack's face, Will wonders too, but he doesn't really think about any of those things anymore. The world turns, and we with it. 

"He took to it well," Hannibal says. Mild curiosity is all he allows himself to display when he comes to these things with Will, too polite to show the distaste he feigns. 

Hannibal has quite a talent for unpicking the knots left behind by mentally disturbed killers, but Jack respects Hannibal's distaste in a way he had never respected Will's reluctance. Maybe he just intuits that Hannibal won't be swayed. 

"Yes," Will agrees, looking around the office. There's blood on the corner of the desk, and a carafe of water soaking into the carpet. "He did. He isn't a natural killer, but he's a weak man, easily dominated by his wife." 

"His wife?" Jack asks. 

Hannibal is staring at the desk, the stationery askew, pens scattered across the surface. Will can only see half his face, but he looks amused. 

"He was having an affair," Will tells Jack, aware of the bored monotony of his voice but unable to do anything about it. 

"At his wife's instigation?" Hannibal asks. 

Will nods jerkily. "Yes. He never would have had the strength to break away from her. Perhaps not even the desire." 

Her body had been under the desk, face hidden under the spill of hair, and he had walked towards her dreamily, unwilling to open his eyes and see. The carpet had grown wet when--

The carpet isn't wet. 

"You think the wife was the driving force behind this?" Jack asks. "She hasn't been seen in three days. We had her down as his first victim." 

"Much easier for them to escape together when you're searching for a single perpetrator," Will murmurs, walking towards the place the water had spilled and dropping to his knees so that he can press his cheek against the carpet and stroke his fingers over the grain, be as sure as he can. 

"What are you doing?" Katz asks brightly. 

"Nothing," Will says sharply. He staggers back to his feet. "And if you catch up with them she can sacrifice him and carry on herself. You won't know she still exists to be found." 

The carpet is bone-dry. 

_He's wondering at the abandoned wine when he sees the body under the desk and staggers towards it on shaky legs, struggling for breath. He can't see her face, but he knows who it is, he knows who--_

_He reaches out to steady himself on the desk and knocks the carafe off the edge onto the floor, water rushing out as the glass bounces. Her body absorbs most of the spill, so her hair is wet when he makes it down onto his trembling knees and pushes it back with nerveless fingers._

_Abigail's empty eyes stare up at him from a face showing the unmistakable marks of asphyxiation, above a neck distorted by strangulation._

_"Will," Hannibal says from behind him._

_She had never even gotten to finish her wine. She had been too young to drink it, far, far too young for any of this._

_Hannibal sounds surprised. Will laughs, he thinks._

Half of Hannibal's face curves into a smile; Will wonders what the rest of him is like. "A clever ploy." 

"Not clever enough," Jack bites out, glaring at Will in something like approval. "We'll get them now." 

"She lures the girl over with a text from my phone," Will says, though she hadn't; Mrs. Donchester's husband had asked the girl over himself. 

Hannibal stills entirely in a way that is unusual for him, less predator stalking and more bird afraid of what is to come. Will wonders what he had done with Abigail's phone, once he had sent the message that had brought Alana to his home. He would have disposed of it appropriately, Will is sure. 

Hannibal turns his head, giving Will his whole face, the eyes that know, now, that have _always_ known. 

(Will _knows now, but he doesn't_ \--) 

Hannibal's face is more familiar to him than his own, and certainly more beloved. 

"I have no idea what's going to happen," Will continues. 

He can speak, now, surrounded by Jack and the assembled might of the FBI. He can speak _now_ ; it is the only time he will be able. 

"This isn't the first time she's done this, but it's still unexpected. I'm surprised every time, because I have yet to accept who the person I love is." 

Hannibal is coiled with tension as he watches Will as Will considers, as Will remembers-- 

_"Why would you do this to her?" Will pleads, wanting an explanation that doesn't exist. Hannibal touches his lips with a careful finger, and Will has never thought of that, Will can't ever have thought of this man touching him like that, so he bites his lip until it splits, filling his mouth with the rancid taste of blood. Hannibal catches his hands comfortingly, and Will can't pull them away, can't pull himself away. "Why would you do this to any of them?"_

_Hannibal makes a soothing noise, touches his hand gently to Will's skull, and Will sobs when he slumps helplessly against Hannibal, because it doesn't matter how much he has grown to depend on this man; now that he knows who Hannibal is it doesn't matter how necessary he is to Will's survival, he shouldn't, he_ shouldn't _, shouldn't, can't--_

_His mind explodes into a short-circuit, overwhelmed by input he can't process, and his eyes roll back as his body slides down Hannibal's towards the floor. He thinks he's having a sei--_

_He doesn't think anything, doesn't feel anything but absence, but relief._

_When he wakes up, his world holds nothing but Hannibal's concern and care, and a puddle of water darkening the carpet._

\--as Will remembers, and decides. As he chooses, for the first time, sure that he will not regret it.

He might have been able to let it all go, once, but not now, not after everything he has already lost; the person he is now will not lose anything else. 

He isn't losing Hannibal. 

"But I did take to it," Will tells Hannibal, eyes on Jack. "This is who I am now, and you won't turn me against her." 

He hears Hannibal breathe sharply out, a startled sound of satisfaction. 

Possibility has closed off as much for him as for Alana, peaceful in death. 

He wonders who she was. He won't let himself remember. He can't be anyone but who he is now, though he thinks he would grieve her, if he could. 

Jack makes a disappointed noise, and turns to give Katz her orders, dismissing Will from his mind. 

"We should get home," Will says deliberately, hovering close to Hannibal's warmth the way he always does. 

He doesn't let himself think about what will happen when they get there, about what Hannibal will ask him, or whether this had been Hannibal's design. 

Hannibal must have known the memory loss would be temporary, but the tension that had gripped him suggests he hadn't planned for memory returning to Will in this manner. 

Will wishes it hadn't. Will wishes he hadn't remembered at all. 

He had been _happy_ , he thinks. 

He ignores the wariness and indecision pushing its way onto Hannibal's face until they're downstairs, away from the agents milling around like ants rolling Sisyphus' boulder endlessly up that hill. 

He _will_ be happy. 

"Hey," he says, stopping Hannibal before they reach the door. Hannibal's face is hazy, distant through the fog in a way it hasn't been since longer ago than he can remember. 

Will considers and discards options for a moment, coming up with people they have already killed together, like Dr. Waters, or people upon whom he wouldn't wish them in a fit. 

"Yes?" Hannibal's suspicion is rising. 

A face flashes into his mind in an opportune return; a girl who had thought herself dead before Hannibal had killed her, comb running through shining strawberry-blonde hair, face bright with joy as she smiled at him, alive behind the glass that separated them. 

"Do you remember when we visited Georgia Madchen together?" he asks, watching as the cloud lifts gradually. They never had, of course. He remembers that, too, discussing his solo visit and his sickness as he ate the soup Hannibal had prepared for him. He will never admit it. "We should offer our condolences to her mother, don't you think? I feel sure she would open her doors for us." 

"Yes," Hannibal says, low and pleased. "We certainly should. We can't neglect family." 

"Abigail would never forgive us," Will agrees, smiling as satisfied hope lights Hannibal's face, leaves him as untroubled and happy as Will is determined they will both soon be. 

"Let us go home," Hannibal says, touching Will's elbow and guiding him until they fall into step together, "and make our plans for the future." 

They leave the crime scene behind and get back to work. 

end.


End file.
